A Study in Wands
by Starluff
Summary: "'WANTED: A Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor at Hogwarts' the newspaper read. Watson smiled." Non-slash, slightly cracky crossover, friendship fluff and all that. Gift!fic for Alaylith; congratulations!
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** **Author(s):** Starluff/Stellinia

**Rating: P**G

**Character(s)/Pairings: **Holmes and Watson, gen

**Summary: **'WANTED: A Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor at Hogwarts' the newspaper read. Watson smiled.

**Warnings: **Some mentions of magical warfare. War wasn't pretty, guys, and neither was the magical part. Nothing explicit, just stating what happened.

**Author's Notes:** Gift!fic for Alaylith for winning the July Writing Prompts on the Watson's Woes comm. So flattered she chose me to write her gift! This kind of ran away with me, so... Anyway, hope you enjoy, and don't forget to review!

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Watson had missed Diagon Alley, he really had. He'd missed the soft sounds of people chatting in the background, doors opening and closing, the occasional tinkle of an opened door. He'd missed the peeling paint, the messiness, the _magic_. There was something to be said about an alley you could walk down and listen to kids rave about the latest broom and tell tales of the _last_ crack pot who thought he could steal from Gringotts, where old women complained about the prices of potion ingrediants and compared the best potion recipe for rheumatism. Of course, he'd also missed London (England in general, to be specific) and the normalcy of muggle places. He'd spent almost five hours just walking around in muggle places and watching the people go by. But now he longed to be back among his kind. For too long he'd lied and pretended to be something he was not, and he was tired. He wanted to be back among the magic and the magical, and not have to make up a fib about how he had just made a bad wound disappear in just a second, or how he was still treating patients when his supplies were finished.

So, first, off to Gringotts! Watson had _loved _riding in the cart as a child, though he wasn't sure how he would feel now. He went to the goblin at the counter, gave him his key, and they sat in the cart. No, he still loved it just as much now that he was older. His lips pulled and curled upward, and a laugh escaped him as they hurtled through the dark and unknown. Watson kept a wary eye out for any telltale glimpses of fire, but fortunately, he saw none; he had seen enough dragons for a life time during the war, thank you very much. He had also gotten quite good at killing them - or, at least, distracting them so that they didn't go near the wounded.

After he gathered up his money (he had a reasonable amount saved up from before he went off to war, adding to his monthly pension, he was reasonably well off) he went to his next destination: Olivanders.

Watson had not loved his old wand the way you don't love your arm or leg; it was a constant, it was a very part of you, it _was_ you. You couldn't imagine life without it. Watson felt crippled without a wand. He had done a lot in the war - slain wizards, gone up against _dragons_ and other nasty creatures. Now, even a normal muggle could attack him and win. It galled him, and he yearned for the trusted safety of a wand in his hand. It would never be the same, of course; no two wands are created the same. He wondered what his new wand would be.

"Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C." read the peeling gold letters on the door of the narrow and shabby shop. Watson had always wondered if that was true. A bell rang out as he opened the door, and Watson savored the experience. The shop looked as he had remembered it, and it felt the same as well. The little space, the boxes piled ceiling-high, and the ever-present air of magic and mystery, that gave Watson a thrill.

"Good afternoon," said a soft voice, just as soft as his memories told him it would be, and Watson turned toward the source. The wide-eyed man seemed to have changed as little as the shop he ran.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Ollivander," Watson replied, taking off his hat. The look of confusion on the older man's face pleased Watson; Mr. Ollivander prided himself on remembering everyone who bought from his shop, and to see someone familiar who he couldn't immediately place must have annoyed him. Watson decided he would give the man five seconds before reminding him himself, but he didn't need to. After 3.2 seconds, Mr. Ollivander's eyes shone with recognition, and Watson knew he had missed his chance.

"Watson!" He cried, "John Watson. Now I remember, you've changed quite a bit, haven't you? New hairstyle, mustache, thinner - I almost didn't recognize you. But no matter where we meet or how much you change, I think I will always be able to recognize you by your eyes."

His eyes? What were so special about hazel eyes? But Watson didn't comment - indeed, he couldn't, because Mr. Ollivander just carried on, "I remember your wand, blackthorn with Unicorn hair core, eleven inches, pliable. One of the strongest bonds I ever witnessed in this shop; I did not think I'd ever see you here again, Watson. What happened to the blackthorn?" He fixed Watson with a fierce gaze, as if he had left his child in Watson's charge, and he had not taken care of him. To be fair, that was probably exactly how he felt.

Watson only sighed, though. No one felt the wand's loss as he did. His bond with the blackthorn had, indeed, been a singularly powerful one, and it only strengthened during the war. Coupling the blackthorn's habit of bonding with a man through hardship with a Unicorn's core (making it doubly loyal), no wand had ever been more attached to a man than it. And now it was gone forever.

"I went to war," Watson began, unsure whether Mr. Ollivander knew this. "It was in Kandahar. A friend of mine had injured his leg and I was trying to get to safety when ten men surrounded us. They hit me with their combined strength and, despite my defense spell, my friend and I should have died. But instead, the spell became so powerful that it blocked their combined strengths. But the wand wasn't able to maintain so powerful a spell for long (indeed, it shouldn't have been able to in the first place) so it shattered. After that, the spell went out of control, and it injured me," Watson indicated his shoulder, "and the other men. It broke, saving my life."

Mr. Ollivander nodded, looking too much like a father who had lost his son at war (Watson knew the look well). "That was probably the best way for it to go," was all he said, though.

"But, enough of that! You've come here for another wand, and another wand I shall get you. I warn you, though, the second wand is always harder to find than the first."

Watson nodded - he had known as much - and Mr. Ollivander pulled out his first wand.

Fifteen minutes later, with a pile of wands almost as high as the ceiling, Watson was considering giving up. But Mr. Ollivander wouldn't have it - he said he wouldn't have his reputation tarnished by not having the correct wand for a customer, but Watson knew it was just because he was enjoying himself.

_Finally_, he touched a wand and felt that familiar warmth spread through his hand, the warmth he had come to crave ever since the blackthorn broke. Sparks shot out of the tip and Watson couldn't help but smile. Mr. Ollivander laughed with delight, rubbing his hands together. "Not as infatuated with you as the old one, but I do think it has taken a shine to you all the same." Watson wished he would stop talking about wands as if they were his lovers.

"Erm, Mr. Ollivander, what did you say this was?" After his fiftieth try, Watson had stopped listening.

"Hm? Oh, I said that it was made of rowan with a phoenix feather core, good for defensive spells and twelve and three quarters inches. Very rigid. I've tried to give it out to people in the past, but rowan is known for only going with the purest of heart, and I think its personality is rigid as well, for it has refused hundreds of people. It's one of a pair, you know."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, as you may know, phoenixes are not in the habit of giving more than one tail feather. The one that gave the tail in your wand did give one more, however. I sold i brother years ago - only three days after it was made - before I made the one you now hold in your hand. I've been trying to sell that wand for - hm, how long? - about, say, twenty years."

"_Twenty years?!_"

"Yes, everything about this wand was difficult," this said as if it were a great compliment. "It was as if the feather knew what it wanted to be and would take no less. It _only_ worked with rowan, _only_ at a certain length, _only_ at that level of flexibility. Phoenix feathers are always picky about their owners, rowan only takes the purist of heart, and then you have the length to take into account. A difficult wand for a difficult man, eh?"

Watson smiled. "By the by, if you don't mind me asking, who bought this wand's brother?"

Mr. Ollivander, unexpectedly, frowned. "I'm afraid I can't tell you that. He is a highly private man, you see, and I don't think he would appreciate me telling anyone."

Watson was surprised, simply because Mr. Ollivander could talk for hours about who took what, why, and when; he hadn't expected him to refuse. But he understood that a man might want his privacy. He paid the seven galleons and said goodbye.


	2. Chapter 2

Enter Holmes, whee! All the fluff :3 By the way, about Eupraxia Mole, the headmistress who appears at the end, she is not an OC but an existing character. It's a long story that you can just look up if you wish to. It's the Peeves article that J. K. Rowling wrote, talking about an incident in 1876. Seeing as how this is set only five years after (it's 1881, you know) and how the principle after her was Phineas Nigellus Black - the least popular headmaster Hogwarts ever had, who hated muggles, I figured she was perfect for the job. Besides, Black was only 34 during this time, and I think that headmasters/mistresses should be older than that. Or perhaps not. I don't know.

This part is 3301 words; you can see how this got out of hand XD Had a bit of a grammar dispute with my mom (who is beta'ing) about 'and's and commas, and how the twain should never meet. Just like that sentence! Why can't English have a Great Big Book of Grammar that everyone must follow? It would make things so much easier! *Sigh* Anyway, hope you enjoy, don't forget to review, and all that. Onto the story!

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Watson was standing at the Criterion Bar when he figured out what he was going to do next. He couldn't live on an army pension nor live in a hotel forever, so he needed both a job and accommodations. He was hoping to split the rent with someone; not only would it alleviate the monetary pressure, but Watson did not like living alone and would much prefer to have someone else in the house. The answer to his problems came in the form of an ad in the Daily Prophet, advertising that Hogwarts was looking for a nurse, as well as professors for Defense Against the Dark Arts and Potions. Suddenly excited, Watson quickly paid for his drink and went back to his hotel room. When he got there he took out a pen, parchment, and some ink. He studied the ad thoroughly, ready to write down his resume. Working at Hogwarts would be perfect! Food, a place to stay, full of other people, and the salary wasn't half bad. He could leave after a year if he so chose, at least until he could recover some of his health. Plus, they were always in need of some teachers and at least one nurse to stay during the holidays.

But Watson found himself hesitating. His eyes kept on being drawn to the Defense Against the Dark Arts section. The cursed subject. No one could stay in that position for more than year, and every year there was someone new. Which was a shame, since DADA wasn't standardized and the material depended mostly on the professor. They should manage to get one professor and stick with him.

But he didn't care. That was a fairly dangerous subject and Watson had had enough of danger. He didn't want to think about spells and defense and strategies. He wanted a way to pass a year or two as he saved up for a practice of his own. He didn't want to teach.

Yet when he put the pen to the parchment, it did not write 'nurse', but 'professor for Defense Against the Dark Arts.

Getting on platform nine and three-quarters was proving to be a bit difficult for Watson. The weather was damp and chilly, and it felt like there was going to be rain later on. This made his shoulder wound act up, which made pushing a trolley while running and trying not to be seen seem impossible. He wasn't sure if he was going to be able to do it. While he was standing around, trying to decide whether he was going to soldier through the pain or suck up his pride and ask for help, he noticed someone else getting ready to rush through the pillar. He was a tall man, with straight black hair and grey eyes. Watson knew he was getting ready to go through the pillar because he was standing next to him, in front of the very platform, watching the surrounding crowd closely, waiting his chance.

"Platform nine and three-quarters?" Watson asked conversationally, under his breath.

The man did not move a muscle, but dragged his eyes over to Watson and ran them up and down his person. "Yes. You have been injured at war, I perceive? Afghanistan, if I am not much mistaken."

Watson gave a start, "But how did you...?"

The man smiled with pleasure, "Never mind. The problem at hand is that you will most probably not be able to make it through the pillar without doing further injury to yourself. Now, what I would suggest - ah!" And with that, the man ran off, mid-sentence, leaving Watson behind.

Watson stared after him, feeling very foolish and still in the same dilemma he had been one minute prior. Just as he decided that he was going to try to get the trolley through, wound be damned, the man came back, _sans _trolley. He walked with a quick, business-like air as he went over to Watson, took the trolley out of his hands, and ran off toward the pillar. The swiftness left Watson feeling surprised and watched open-mouthed for a moment, then took off after him - or at least, as fast as his aching wound would allow him. He got through the pillar without mishap, and looking around, found his trolley without the man. He must have left, though whether because he wanted to avoid embarrassing thank-yous or because he was busy, Watson was sure he didn't know.

Watson got on the train and went up front with the rest of the professors. But he didn't feel like socializing - not with so many people at once, in any case - and he excused himself on the basis of a headache, and went to lie down in an empty compartment. He had planned on taking a nap, but found himself incapable of closing his eyes for long, and opted instead for sitting next to the window and ogling at the sights that whizzed by. He was enjoying himself so much, away from prying eyes and tiresome small-talk, with nothing but the sounds of excited children and chatter as company that his heart sank when the door to his compartment opened. There stood the man who had helped him with the trolley, much to his surprise. Unlike earlier, when he had looked calm and at ease, he now looked annoyed. The moment he saw Watson, he grimaced in disappointment; but to his credit, he covered up the look in less than a second, and then his was expression was unreadable. Watson was sure he hadn't imagined the grimace though.

"Do you mind if I join you?" The man asked politely, but Watson was sure it was forced.

"By all means," Watson replied. Even if the man had not helped him earlier, his good sense would have allowed him to stay anyway (even if all he wanted was for him to leave). They sat for a few moments in awkward silence, Watson wondering if he should say anything and fiercely wishing he didn't have to. Finally, he opened his mouth to say _something_, but the man quickly overtook him. "I do not," he began testily, "want to hear about your children, or what you did in the summer, or any other bit of mundane small talk."

Watson shut his mouth with a click. The man looked, then sighed and said, in a much less annoyed manner, "Pray forgive me my slip of tongue. I am just very tired and would much prefer not to talk."

"I believe you were referring to Professor Greyback?" Watson asked instead, eyes twinkling with mischief. "Of the ten _beautiful_ children who have all gone on to create great names for themselves, are the greatest children the world has ever seen, etc.?"

The man looked up in surprise. Seeing Watson's smile, he seemed to relax and smiled, this one decidedly less strained than before. "Yes, I do believe you have it. Good heavens, I thought my ear was going to fall off from her incessant chatter!"

"I myself was a bit overwhelmed, especially when they found out that I'm the new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor," Watson replied. "I don't think that a lot of people leave Hogwarts, so when someone new shows up, the old professors get excited. You know, they kept on asking me if everything was alright, just because I wasn't smiling!

They shared a companionable smile, and then the man took a book out of his bag and began to leaf through it. Watson went back to staring out the window.

"Thank you, by the way." Watson said after a few minutes. "For helping me at the platform."

But the man just waved his hand dismissively, "Make no mention of it."

"My name is John Watson," Watson said, because he really wanted to know this man's name, and it did not look like he was going to get it any other way. He extended his hand.

The man looked up the hand, then at Watson. After a moment, he took his hand and smiled in an easy, charismatic fashion that had not been there a moment before. "Sherlock Holmes. I'm the new potions master."

Watson nodded and then they resumed to what they had been doing.

The rest of the train ride was passed in silence, except for the sound of turning pages, and it was interrupted once by the lady with the passing cart. Holmes didn't buy anything, but Watson - feeling especially giddy and childish - bought five packs of Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans, three Chocolate Frogs, and a cup of tea. The first Chocolate Frog he opened was too quick for him, and it jumped right out of his grasp and onto Holmes. Watson was helpless as he roared with laughter at the ensuing hijinks. When Holmes finally managed to hurl the frog out the window, he gave Watson a glare, but he seemed to be fighting back a smile, so Watson had thought nothing of it.

Watson was enjoying himself so much, in fact, that he was almost disappointed when he heard a voice boom throughout the train: "We will be reaching Hogwarts in five minutes' time. Please leave your luggage on the train, it will be taken to the school separately."

But he soon forgot his disappointment when he realized he was going to see Hogwarts soon. He was grateful for the relaxing train ride, but he was now ready to see the famous school and its' Sorting Ceremony.

Watson had never been to Hogwarts. He went to a minor wizarding school near the little village he had spent his childhood. Afterward, he had gone to the University of London, and had proceeded to Netley to go through the course prescribed for surgeons in the army (the magical section, of course, though he had also studied some non-magical healing). After that, he had gone to fight in the lesser-known magical side of the second Afghan war. Muggles and wizards don't often mix, especially in politics, but they sometimes (though rarely) align and fight together - though the muggles never know it.

By some unspoken agreement neither of them really knew, Watson and Holmes left the train side-by-side and shared a Thestral-drawn carriage, the same way they had shared a compartment. Before getting in, Watson patted the Thestral on the muzzle and scratched it under its jaw - its favorite place. Watson had a way with Thestrals, and this one was no exception, nuzzling his hand and nosing his pockets in search of treats. Thestrals had been an integral part of the wizarding Afghan war. If they were always invisible unconditionally, they may have been useful with espionage; but once a person saw death with his own eyes (and, consequently, understood how fleeting and short a life can be) they became visible, so you would be hard pressed to find someone in the army who could _not_ see them. Nevertheless, they were hardy and powerful beasts, capable of great bursts of speed at a moment's notice, and thus invaluable. They could also eat the corpses of the dead, so they were easy to feed.

They say that the more death you've seen, the more a Thestral likes you. Watson had yet to find anything to disprove this theory.

When they arrived, Watson was hard pressed not to gape at everything he saw; it was every bit as awesome as he had been told. There were four massive tables where all the students from the carriages went to sit (the first years arrived via boat over the lake and would arrive momentarily) and at the end of the hall was another long table where the teachers went to sit. Watson followed them, and when he sat down, he found Holmes beside him, already smoking a pipe, looking around at the students before him. Watson looked upward at the thousands of candles floating in midair, casting a lovely warm glow over everything, and the bewitched ceiling. If there had been one good thing about the Afghanistan desert, it had been the night sky. In England - dirty, muggy, smoggy England - you couldn't see a lot stars in the night sky. But in Afghanistan, there had been nothing to hinder the view of thousands of twinkling lights and blankets of glitter. If Watson had not read Hogwarts, A History, he would never have known that the sky was not real.

Then the moment that he had been waiting for came: the sorting ceremony. While Watson had been gazing at the ceiling, the first years had entered and were lined up with their backs to him. Watson looked on with interest at the old, battered Sorting Hat of lore. The first student was called, and he went to sit on the stool and let the hat be placed on his head.

"Hm, Ravenclaw, I should think," Holmes said beside him. Watson looked at him in surprise, and indeed, when the Sorting Hat spoke, it said, "Ravenclaw!" Holmes' lips twitched upward in satisfaction, and continued smoking his pipe.

"How the deuce did you know that?" Watson asked.

"He has a pocketbook in his pocket, leading me to believe he has studied more than any normal student, and doesn't seem interested in others' company. Ravenclaw is home to all things clever and eccentric, so I thought that the Sorting Hat would put him there.

"It's all guess work, of course," he continued conversationally. "It's more than just your personality, it's where you might fit in and get along with others. You can easily be brave, smart, kind, and ambitious all at once; in fact, you would be hard pressed to find someone that only fits in one house. But it's where you might get along best that the Sorting Hat puts you. So Ravenclaw supports those who are smart and different from everyone else, but they are also fairly introvertive. They don't bully each other, but they are fiercely competitive, and might never speak with one another if left alone. That is probably why they have such difficult questions at the door. They gather 'round and work together to solve the question in order to get in. It is probably the only time they can work cooperatively together."

"You've read up on it extensively, I see?"

"I glanced over some books to know what I was getting myself into, and found the reading to be quite interesting. It was a good study in human tendencies."

"Well, what do you think I would be sorted into?"

Holmes looked up in surprise, then frowned, deep in thought. Watson hadn't thought he would take his question seriously, but perhaps he was a person who did not jest lightly.

"Hufflepuff or Gryffindor, I should say," he said, after a good five minutes' thought. The ceremony was almost at an end.

"Can't decide which?"

"I have kept an eye on the children being sorted, and I have only been right two out of three times. The Sorting Hat sees things that even I cannot." This seemed to annoy him.

"Well, why do you say Hufflepuff or Gryffindor?"

"You have an easy way with people. You are humble (an overrated trait, in my opinion, but it is a trait of Hufflepuff) and honest. On the other hand, you seem like a brave and noble person." Then he smiled, "Of course, I can also say that you are quite smart and philosophical, and might do well in Ravenclaw. Just as I can say that you seem quite clannish and willing to prove yourself, marking you as a Slytherin. So you see," he took a puff of his pipe, "it is not about what house works best for you, but what you want and what the Sorting Hat thinks is best."

"Remarkable," Watson said with a smile.

Holmes waved his hand, "Logical," he amended, and then the headmistress's speech (that Watson hadn't even noticed had started) ended and the food appeared on the table. If Watson was the type to be easily moved to tears, he would have cried at the sight: roast beef, roast chicken, pork chops and lamb chops, sausages, bacon and steak, boiled potatoes, roast potatoes, fries, Yorkshire pudding, peas, carrots, and gravy. As it was, all he did was raise his eyes to the heavens and say a quick prayer and tucked in. Holmes, he noticed, did not seem to care that much, but managed some roast chicken and potatoes.

Watson didn't notice anything else for the rest of the evening (except for, perhaps, the desserts, of which he ate more than he should) because Holmes (who suddenly decided that he felt chatty) kept up a steady stream of chatter, speaking of anything and everything under the sun. Watson, for his part, found Holmes' talk quite interesting and was content in being mostly talked at - and making quick work of the treacle tarts. And so, any speeches and notices made by the headmistress flew right by his head. When everyone got up to go, Watson started in surprise and quickly went to join them, pretending he had heard the headmistress dismissing them.

After most of the students had left, the headmistress, Eupraxia Mole, took Watson and Holmes aside to speak to them. "I am very sorry," she said, after they had traded social niceties and introductions, "but I'm afraid there has been a bit of a problem with the sleeping arrangements. Usually, a teacher has his or her own sleeping quarters, made up of a bedroom and office attached together, but..." Mole hesitated and looked embarrassed, "due to certain..._events_ five years ago-"

"The Peeves debacle," Holmes said, his eyes twinkling.*

Watson laughed, "I know that! I read about it in the papers. It must have been a memorable three days for the students, being locked out of the castle as they were."

Mole coughed delicately, "Yes, well, we are still recovering from those events. We do not have enough quarters for all the professors. Would you two mind if you lived together? You'll take the biggest living quarters we have, of course; it has two separate bedrooms, a large office adjoining them, and its own bathroom. Will this be any problem?"

"I don't see why not," Watson said with an easy shrug.

Holmes, for a moment, looked uncertain. But then he glanced at Watson and seemed to come to a decision. "No, that will be fine Mole."

Mole relaxed visibly and smiled, "We should have another room ready in a few months' time, should either of you change your minds." Then, as they were escorted to their new bedrooms, Mole went on to explain the general setup of the school (which was always changing); that she had already looked at, and approved, of Watson's different approach on teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts; that school started the day after tomorrow so they should make sure to be prepared and that the schedule would be delivered to them first thing in the morning. Did they have any questions? They did not, so she wished them a good night and left them at the door of their new bedrooms.

Just as Mole had promised, there were two bedrooms that were connected to one large room, all of which was already furnished. One room had Watson's things in it, with a four-poster bed and the other was similarly furnished for Holmes. You could only reach the bedrooms by going through the office, which had two lovely, mahogany desks. Watson took the one next to the window and would have set up had he been able to keep his eyes open. Seeing as he could not, he did nothing but wish Holmes a good night and fell asleep without changing.


	3. Chapter 3

_**This thing needs to END. **_**Seriously, I'm kind of freaking out at the moment. My mom was just telling me that it's a really good start to a story, not necessarily a short story. But you live and you learn, and all that. In any case, Alaylith seemed to be enjoying it, so if she likes, my mission is a success. **

**As before, thanks to my mom for beta'ing, and patiently reminding me that you don't spell 'supplies' as 'supplise' (I forget sometimes XD), and wading through my run-on sentences. Hope you enjoy, and don't forget to review!  
**

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The day after the Welcoming Banquet was free, giving everyone a chance to unpack and look at their timetable. After that, they fell head-first into the school year.

Watson looked at his timetable, then up at the corridor, then back down to the inadequate piece of paper in his hands, then again back up at the long, sweeping corridor lined with suits of armor. If magic was so darned advanced, why didn't they have a spell that could make the map of the castle change with the castle itself?

It was Wednesday and Watson had Second Year Hufflepuffs for the fourth period. After revising what it was he was going to teach, his beginning speech, etc, he had set off to look for the classroom. He had made the mistake, unfortunately, of leaving only fifteen minutes before the class began and did not take into account the amount of time it would take to reach the class. The timetable he had gave him a general idea of where things were, but the simple fact of the matter was that the castle changed too much to be able to be mapped. After three turns he wasn't entirely sure of, narrowly avoiding falling through a staircase that had three consecutive trick steps and a door that he was supposed to go through yet refused to open, he was now standing in front of what _should_ have been his classroom, yet was a corridor. He was now panicking that he was going to reach the classroom late; not the kind of first impression you want to leave on your students. Just as he was considering zapping the door next to him with a particularly powerful spell (that may or may not get him sacked), he saw a familiar face.

"Holmes!" He cried, and all but flung himself at the new potions master.

Holmes, for his part, looked ecstatic. "Watson, this castle! Have you had a chance to look around? I got lost yesterday just going to the Great Hall and spent the consecutive five hours just wandering around. It is amazing! The magic! I've never seen anything like it! I'd read about it, of course, but I never thought-"

"Holmes, shut up for a second!" Watson tended to get snappy when he was panicked (though Holmes never seemed to mind. In fact, looking back, it seemed to amuse him.) "I'm lost, I can't find my way to my classroom and I have a class in" - he looked at his pocket watch - "five minutes. Can you get me there?" He looked at him as if he was going to save him from execution.

Holmes smiled in excitement. "Classroom 3C, correct? Let's go!"

"You know the way?" Watson asked, relief flooding him.

"No, but we can try," Holmes replied cheerily. "I have the rest of the day free, anyhow, and I'd like to commit this castle to memory. This year may not be as boring as I had initially thought; oh, what fun!"

And just like that, Holmes took off, Watson on his heels. To his surprise, they were not walking like orderly gentlemen, but racing like two schoolboys. He didn't care overmuch; he was too afraid of being late.

Holmes took him up not one, not two, but three staircases (of varying degrees of stability) and then down another three.

"Holmes! Where are we?!"

"I've no idea!"

"Then how are we going to get to the classroom?!"

"With luck!"

"The devil take your luck!"

Holmes threw back his head and laughed raucously as he rounded a corner. "But I jest, Watson, forgive me. There's a method to my madness; see, the way I see it, the thing you would most want to see when you are lost is the Fat Friar. Ghosts tend to fall into a certain habit, and since I saw him in a certain place just yesterday, it stands to reason he should be there again today. If we find him, he'll be able to point you in the right direction."

"Theoretically."

"Theoretically," he agreed.

Thankfully, after tickling a door into opening (helped by the portrait hanging next to them) they found the Fat Friar, who escorted them all the way to the class. After thanking the ghost profusely, Watson stumbled into the class, ten minutes late, trying to catch his breath.

Then he turned around, and faced countless pairs of eyes, all directed on him.

Watson could hide panic. When he had found out that his medical supplies were finished, and no less than twenty soldiers were jinxed and needed a potion immediately, he sorely wished he could punch something. He made his orderly go out and search for any likely ingredients instead. When he had heard the sound of a dragon's roar as he reattached an arm to a luckless soldier, he didn't bat an eyelash, and continued calmly directing the man on how to take care of that arm so that it wouldn't fall off

So when he felt mounting panic at being the center of attention (something that had never happened to him before) he pressed down on it with an iron (mental) fist and put on a calm manner like a coat.

"Blasted castle nearly killed me," he said, "Did anyone else nearly fall on that staircase with the three trick steps?" A dozen hands went up and Watson relaxed. He smiled a smile that reached his eyes and made all the students like him. "Then I'm not as old as I'd thought; excellent!

"My name is John H. Watson and I'm an ex-army doctor. I've taken a look at what you were taught last year and I will be continuing off of it - though my own method may be a bit different," he smiled, "as I believe in the practical approach. Is anyone familiar with pixies?"

And that was Watson's slightly unorthodox first lesson in Hogwarts; despite the initial mishap, it went well. The way Watson taught was to start with the definition of the 'beast of the week' and study them, move onto the discussion and independent study and then finish up the unit by putting to practice all that they had studied and try out their own theories. It was a strange way of teaching DADA, but the students loved it and the headmistress backed it, so Watson was satisfied.

From what he could hear, Holmes had started off on a good foot as well. Watson heard that during his first lesson with the Third Years, he walked into the classroom and without pausing for breath, told them, "Congratulations. Last year you were taught how to make the Wiggenweld Potion. Without actually knowing what it does. Genius, I'm sure. Now open up your book page-." He hadn't made a speech or even introduced himself. They didn't know what to call him until a particularly gumptious girl, by the name of Mundin, raised her hand in middle of his lecture and asked, "Excuse me sir, with all due respect, what is your name?" Afterward, Watson heard Holmes praise the girl highly.

Mole should have thanked her lucky stars that she had put Watson - of all people - to live with Holmes, because he didn't think anyone else would have put up with the man.

There were papers strewn all around his room and office (from all manner of subjects, but mainly had to do with his subject, Potion-making) including some bewitched papers that floated magically around, slapping Watson in the face occasionally. On one memorable occasion, he had fixed a howler to the mantelpiece with a jackknife and then took off, leaving Watson alone in the impending explosion. It was from some inspector from the Ministry of Magic with a French-sounding name, complaining about how Holmes had nearly compromised some investigation of his by including muggles - he hardly understood a word of what it said. When he first heard the sound that indicated that the howler was just about to explode (they do that when you don't open them yourself) instinct took over, and he upturned the nearest desk to him, without thought of the pieces of parchment that got thrown and the bottles of ink broken, and hid behind it. The heat that managed to reach him from behind the desk reminded him too much of dragons and Afghanistan for his shattered nerves. When it was over, he had gotten out, shaken, trying desperately to remind himself that he was in England, in Hogwarts, and that there were no dragons around for...well, he didn't really know, truth be told, but they were definitely not here on school grounds. When he saw Holmes skulking just down the hall, the only reason he didn't blast him with a spell was because he was working in a school and currently in a public place, and fighting other teachers would not end well with him. So he managed to lower his wand (which had been pointing at Holmes) and said, in no uncertain terms, that if Holmes _ever_ put something potentially dangerous in their rooms, he should _warn a man. _

In addition to his peculiar and highly unsavory habits, he had what his students had come to call as "Black Moods". In such states, he would be the most lethargic and laziest fellow you ever had the misfortune to lay eyes on. It was as if his very soul had been snuffed out; he moved little and spoke less, with his eyes heavy and dull, and his very skin a dull pallor. If he had let these moods affect his teaching, Watson would never have put up with it; and yet, whenever he had a class, he would drag his sorry state over to dungeons where his classes were situated and, while he did not actively teach the students, he allowed the students the freedom to experiment as they wished with their potions, while he lounged in whatever position suited his fancy at the desk. Despite all appearances, his eyes were ever-watchful and he was quick to punish any student who had decided they did not feel like doing as he said, or wanted to do mischief with their freedom, or were just about to make a very stupid combination. Plus, any and all discoveries were to be written down in the form of a thesis (he trained them early on in the year to do this) to be handed in next class - or whenever Holmes was in a good mood. In such cases, it seemed that it was much more work, not less, to give the students their freedom, yet it seemed to work for Holmes, who did not work like normal people.

Not everything was mess and laziness with Holmes, though, which is precisely why Watson could put up with all of the above. When not in a Black Mood, he was an energetic and pleasant fellow and many a time they sat up late into the night discussing all manner of things. He had such interesting and pleasantly unorthodox ideas about the world in general. As a professor, he was also a great one. When in the mood, no one surpassed him when it came to energy and knowledge of his own subject. He taught them the 12 uses of dragon's blood (and four lesser known uses), the secret to making doxycide ("It's all in the wrist movement while you stir"), and many, many other things. If for nothing else, he was widely popular among the students for openly insulting many of the books they needed to study and pointing out any and all mistakes.


End file.
